The Frock
by C0ldSteel
Summary: Ivan Andreitch Laevsky gets playful and devilish with his mistress, even though he knows he shouldn't. Continuation of a scene from the movie—you won't remember it if you've only read the story. For mature readers.


_A/N: I'm pausing my chaptered fics to write this one-shot while The Duel is still fresh in my mind. Due to Andrew Scott's rising popularity I was a little surprised that there weren't any Duel fics out there yet. I had to get the category added. If you're a mature reader and you haven't seen this movie, you should before you read this story or you won't know what's going on. I'm continuing a scene that doesn't appear in the book._

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"Is that a new frock?" Laevsky asked lightly, but eying his mistress with suspicion. "I'm sure you're aware we haven't the funds."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna did not answer, but stood looking at him with an expression between curiosity, fear and amusement. He knew she wasn't sure how much trouble she was in with him.

"Take it off."

Some of the anticipation disappeared then, and a sheepish little smile appeared on her face. But still she said nothing, did not move.

Laevsky stalked toward her, feeling his passion mounting. He stood before her and took hold of the new dress. "I said... _take it off!"_ he said, tearing the dress open and exposing her underthings, her pale bosom rising and falling quickly in their confines.

She still did not speak, but her smile had grown into something like delighted terror.

He liked the way she was reacting, but a nagging little voice in his head reminded him that he did not love her. Could it be acceptable to enjoy her as he had in the past, knowing that it was empty now? He tugged the dress open more fully, wondering if he were damning himself by his actions.

She was breathing more quickly than ever, still silent. But there seemed to be a light in her eyes; it was enough to drive him on.

He reached under the folds of the dress and found her corset lacing. A few moments and it was undone; then he could pull everything away. view the sight that sometimes drove him mad with desire. He did feel the warmth and hardness growing... but there seemed to be something missing, and it gave him pause.

"Vanya..." she spoke at last. When she said his pet name it sounded a little more like a question than an invitation, but there was a connection in it. She was reaching out to him, though not with her hands.

He lowered his head to kiss her throat, and he felt her shiver with pleasure as his hands slid up her sides and over her breasts. At last he felt her hands on his arms, not fending him off, but caressing him and silently asking for more.

He leaned back and brushed a light strand of hair from her face. _How beautiful she is... even here, in her poor surroundings, as beautiful as the day we met._

She slid her hands up to his neck and pulled off his loose cravat. Then she hesitantly began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt, as if afraid she would be reprimanded at any moment.

He should stop her. He should stop himself. _It isn't right. She isn't well._ But none of these thoughts was strong enough to change his course. _I'm quite useless,_ he mused; it was a common excuse with him that he could not help his laziness or his selfishness or his wastefulness because he hadn't the will or the good fortune or even the good sense of other men. A byproduct of a wicked society. _I can do nothing else._

When all the buttons were undone she pulled his shirt down and away, letting it drop to the floor. He mimicked her action, pulling back the shoulders of her dress and freeing the sleeves from her wrists. The garment slid down to her hips; he tugged it loose and it pooled around her feet.

She put her arms around him shyly... almost apologetically. How different this was from such a short time ago. Laevsky could not remember his mistress being so timid before. As if she were trying to take care of him, to comfort him for some misfortune he did not yet know of. When she held him tightly and kissed his chest, some of his strength seemed to melt away.

"Nadya," he whispered into her hair. It felt like a lie, to say her name in passion when there was no love behind it. He moved his hands over her silky skin, felt her breasts pressing against him, reached down to relieve her of the last of her clothing, all the while trying to block out his guilt.

He had to let go of her to open his breeches. It seemed like a terribly vulgar interruption in the middle of the proceedings, like a play being interrupted to demand tips from the audience. Again, his mind railed against him that he was an utterly selfish good-for-nothing. He didn't remove the breeches completely, in spite of the heat, but merely opened them enough for freedom of movement.

Nadya waited in silence, not hurrying him or letting her timidity prompt her to move away. She received him readily, in spite of her expression that said she too had a sense that this was wrong, though her reasons were not likely the same as his.

Laevsky wondered if she truly still loved him. He had doubted it a long time now, believing her portrayal of affection to be as much a lie as his own. But the desire she showed toward him now was more than enough to make him want her desperately. That much was not a lie. He was pleased to find that he slid inside easily—she was every bit as aroused as he. That made things easier on his conscience. He kissed her lips and kneaded her breasts, producing a soft moan from her. He felt her slender fingers pressing into his back, pulling him closer, asking for more force behind his slow thrusting.

"Vanya," she said again, the word carried out on a sharp breath of air that he felt hot on his neck. "Oh, Vanya..."

It drove him mad when she spoke like that, having lost all control of her own voice. It made him want to eat her up. He again pressed his mouth to hers, this time parting his lips to caress her with his tongue in a way he knew was considered most unseemly. He didn't care—when one seduces another man's wife and persuades her to run away with one, it is not much of a leap to leave other social conventions behind. He moved more quickly, feeling a great heat rising in them both. She was moving her hips with him now, completely at the mercy of her desire.

He moved his mouth over her chin and down to suck the soft skin of her neck. Then the tight heat demanded all his attention and he pushed forward as hard and as fast as he could, the pleasure beginning to break over him in waves. "My darling..." His breath was coming raggedly now. He wanted nothing more than to push on and on and spill his seed inside her... but the prospect of inadvertently conceiving a child and having a new and terrible burden on his life was enough to pull him back to finish outside her.

"Vanya, please," she begged.

He pressed his groin to her hip and slipped three fingers inside her. They stumbled back to the wall where they resumed their quick pace in this new position until Nadya gave a stifled scream and he climaxed close after her. They both sagged a bit against the wall, panting desperately. He held her tightly, not wanting to let the moment slip away. For just an instant, he could pretend that all was well, that they were happy again.

And then a knock on the study doors and the voice of that infernal maid: "Mistress? Mistress, is everything all right?"

"Not now, Olga!" Nadya cried in alarm.

_Dear god, if that simple woman opens that door, I shall kill her,_ Laevsky thought furiously. _I'll beat her head in. I may do anyway, just for the interruption, damn her._ But then the idea of the maid entering, seeing their moist, naked bodies in the wake of their passion, the idea of her shocked fat face suddenly struck him as so ridiculous as to be terribly amusing. He began to laugh quietly.

"Vanya," Nadya whispered uncertainly.

But he couldn't stop laughing. He pulled her closer and laughed into her hair. Then he heard a giggle escape her, and that made him laugh harder. He felt terribly giddy in the wake of their intimacy. Little wonder, he decided, since they hadn't had sex in months. For that matter, they hadn't had a good laugh together in months. Here at last was something true, something he did not believe was a deception on her part.

As their laughter finally died away, he looked back over the floor at their discarded clothes. "Never mind the frock," he said with one last chuckle. "It'll need mending anyway... I doubt Atchmianov would let you return it now." He forced his features into a stern expression. "Just don't go buying any more."

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_This was my first real hetero smut... about time, right? It struck me as sort of... interesting? that this scene cut out right at the moment where the audience was all set up for a very steamy segment. Not that they shouldn't have. Some things are better to read about than to see actors actually trying to portray, in my opinion. But anyway, there you are: the rest of the frock scene. I hope if there's another Duel fan on the face of the planet that they'll find this story and like it. ^^  
_


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